Dark Escape
by ForeverSirius77
Summary: Albus Dumbledore was believed by many to be the only wizard that Voldemort feared. What happens shortly after his death? How dark can the Wizarding World get? Is victory nothing but a distant and unreachable idea? Full summary inside.


_Disclaimer__: Anything you recognise does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. However, anything you do not recognise does belong to me._

_Summary__: Albus Dumbledore was firmly believed by many to be the only wizard that the Dark Lord Voldemort ever feared. What happens shortly after the headmaster's death? How dark can the Wizarding World possibly get? And is there some hope to be found, or is victory nothing but a distant and unreachable idea? __**Written for the "New Year Extra Credit Challenge: The First Chapter" on MNFF.**_

_Author's __Note__: All right, well, this idea came along very quickly and suddenly, and I figured I'd give a shot at this particular challenge with it. I also tried a slightly altered style of writing – though nothing drastic, just a bit different than my usual style. Now, I present for your enjoyment,_ Dark Escape.

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**Dark Escape**

**By ForeverSirius77**

* * *

Strong winds blew harshly during the massive storm. Rain fell in torrents from the dark grey sky, the only light on this night being provided by the quick, sudden flashes of brilliant lightning that illuminated the sky. Thunder rumbled and roared, its sounds joining the cracking of the lightning, the whirling of the wind, and the pounding of the rain as it hit the ground.

People all over the country – both Muggle and Magical alike – had fled into their homes, retreating back into the embracing safety and security of a strong roof and firmly closed windows. Curtains had even been drawn over the glass views, almost like people felt that they could not even see the storm, that somehow seeing it rage would make it continue for longer, doing more and more damage. It was a silly belief, but it was a belief that seemed to have entered into people's minds nonetheless.

The entire country had been plagued with weird weather for the past few weeks, after all. If it had not been a major storm, then the heat turned unbearable, or a cold front assaulted the citizens, and there was always that strong, misty fog that floated continuously throughout the country, never lifting no matter what the weather did. Everyone knew that there was something strange about that fog; no one could prove those feelings, exactly, but it was just a sort of instinct – an inner knowledge – that they all had. Many of the people did not understand the reasoning behind it; they did not have any understanding of the mysteries surrounding the mist, after all. But those few who did know – the ones privileged (or not) to know the secrets of the mist, of the creatures that dwelled within – they were not sharing the information to the public at large.

It would not do to cause a panic, even if the people did believe them.

But some things did not stay hidden. Sometimes, it was impossible for people to hide the death or show the terror in any softer way than what it really is. Sometimes, good people did not win.

And evil ones did.

* * *

There were screams that echoed up from the ashes of burning buildings. People of all ages – men, women, and children – had become trapped inside the structures where fires raged and smoke rose up into the sky, turning the brightest and sunniest day into a dark and choking night that simply stank of death. The smell of burning, searing flesh stung the noses of those who had escaped the fires long enough for their senses to register the sights, sounds, and smells of the scenes.

Flames crackled and burned as they climbed up through the many buildings that lined the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley. The wooden frames of the shops splintered and collapsed under such an assault, further trapping the poor witches and wizards inside, where their screams echoed along even after they had drawn their last breaths. Families had been separated; mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters ran up and down the streets, their eyes and throats stinging with the smoke's attack as they cried out for the missing members of their group. But it did not do the people any good.

Cries of grief littered the air, just as bodies began littering the grounds. The heat from the flames leapt out at the running people, as if it wanted to encompass anyone that still drew breath in the crowded street. It was as if the fire and smoke was on a mission, and perhaps, in a way, it was. Its mission had been started by the group strolling through Diagon Alley as if nothing was amiss, their long black robes immune to the roaring fires, and their faces hidden in either low hoods, behind masks, or both.

To this group, the screams were musical, not screeching and painful. The people fleeing before them were doing just want they should be doing – running from power and greatness like the dirty and unworthy beings that they were. This group could feel the fear radiating from the grieving witches and wizards, the crying children and the screaming mothers. All of the members of the group could feel it, but none of them so much as the one in the centre. He was the one from which everyone fled; his power was the one that they all feared.

He walked calmly down the streets, burning buildings and dying bodies surrounding him on both sides. Scarlet eyes shone out from under his black hood, fire shining onto the taunt, deathly pale skin of his snake-like face. The tall, skeletally thin man simply walked, completely unfazed by the events surrounding him.

Lord Voldemort allowed the fear and pain encompassing him to grow. The screams filled his ears and the Dark Lord gained power from every moment of it. He had finally achieved the level of power he had held over 16 years ago. In fact, some might argue that his power now exceeded the past, for now there was very few who dared to oppose him. In the present day, the one wizard who had been the light and hope for the now-dying people was gone, dead, never to return. Such a thought brought a smile to the pale face of Voldemort.

He had reached a level that no one had ascended to before. And as he walked, his eyes caught sight of a woman struggling towards a screaming child that was trapped inside the burning outline of Ollivander's. With a slight raise of his wand, he muttered the two words that sent a rushing green light at the woman, striking her directly in the chest and sending her falling to the ground, her last breath leaving before her frail body made its contact with the cobblestone.

* * *

The scenes in Diagon Alley were not limited to the cobblestone streets of that part of the Wizarding World. Rather, they were not even refrained to the Wizarding World itself. Fires and other forms of destruction sprung up all over the country – in both the Muggle and Magical worlds. Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters ran their reigns of terror nationally. Images of the Dark Mark gleaming in a night sky had become as commonplace as the stars or the moon, for there was not a single night that passed where the skies were kept free of the symbol. Every night, at least somewhere, the Dark Mark appeared in the sky and while its arrival still sent fear and dread into people's hearts and minds, they could no longer say that they were surprised. They were numb, yes, but not surprised.

Not anymore.

* * *

Bold, black headlines shone out from the pages of every newspaper and magazine in the Wizarding World, the words always hailing the same sort of information. There was another death to report, another disappearance. Voldemort and the Death Eaters had massacred another village; the Ministry was in turmoil; suspicion and conspiracy theories seeped like a virus through the departments of the magical government. Even some of the Aurors had been put under investigation for Death Eater ties.

The Wizarding World, who had fought for so long against such terror, was collapsing. Hope was being destroyed bit by bit, and with each successive attack, Voldemort and his followers were growing stronger and more daring. Dumbledore's death seemed to be the final tip of the war into the Dark Lord's hands. And the witches and wizards of Magical Britain seemed to be accepting such belief.

"When Dumbledore was alive ..." they said. "This never would have happened when Dumbledore was here ..." Faith in the Ministry declined rapidly, while support for Voldemort grew. People flocked to the Dark Lord in the hopes that they may be able to save themselves from him. But regardless of the fact that so many were losing their faith, losing their hope, there were still witches and wizards willing to fight.

And it was in these that the fate of the magical community rested.

But even though they fought, there were times when the darkness still won.

* * *

The gathering of darkly robed figures stood on a cliff's edge, their long cloaks blowing harshly in the winds. Hoods were pulled low over their over their faces, though such an act was not really necessary to conceal their identities; the masks that they all wore did that job well enough. The many figures held their wands in their hands, and they all stood like a massive army assembled and awaiting orders from their leader and commander. But not every one of the figures was human; there were plenty of dark creatures of the night that had gathered in the group as well, for they shared the leader with the humans.

One of the black-cloaked people broke apart from the rest of her fellow wizards, stepping forwards and approaching the tall, skeletal form of the army's leader. He, too, was cloaked in black, though no mask covered his face and no held fell on his head. Rather, he kept his scarlet gaze on the ranging, storming ocean that stretched out for miles in front of him. His eyes focussed on a single island that stood far out in the distance, the structure atop the rock barely visible in its shrunken size. When the woman reached his side, though, the man still remained silent.

"My Lord?" said the woman, her voice wondering yet strong and forceful at the same time. She stood silently for a moment, awaiting a motion from her lord on whether to continue speaking. Once he had given a slight inclination of his head, which she took to mean that it was acceptable for her to continue, the woman did so. "Master, is it time?"

"No, Bella," hissed Voldemort, his voice as quiet as death, yet holding a strength and hint of frustration within its tone that caused a shiver to run the length of Bellatrix's spine. The feeling seemed to reverberate throughout the gathered followers of the Dark Lord, for many of the Death Eaters seemed to shiver at his words. Their fear littered the air, and the Dementors relished the brief taste of terror that they received from his followers. But it was just a taste of what the dark creatures would feast on in the weeks to come.

"Master, I do not mean to push the issue," said Bellatrix, glancing up with her dark eyes at the pale face of her Master. "But why must we wait even longer?"

Voldemort said nothing in an immediate response to his Death Eater's question, but rather slowly withdrew his wand, making sure that it entered into the witch's sight. He felt the fear that came off of her when her eyes rested upon the magical instrument, and a brief smile came across his face at the witch's worry. The Dark Lord, however, did not aim the tip of his wand at Bellatrix. Instead, he pointed it outwards, towards the prison and, muttering a string of unfamiliar words through his mouth, fired a gleaming, silver jet of light at the fortress of stone.

The light, however, did not connect. Rather, it had seemed to encounter a giant block of some kind, sort of like a giant shield charm. It had appeared like it had hit an invisible wall that, upon connecting with Voldemort's spell, had gleamed brilliant, bright white for a brief moment as it absorbed the silver light, before losing its visibility once again. Voldemort looked at Bellatrix as he spoke.

"We will wait, Bella," he said, "until the wards of the prison have been completely destroyed. Such acts take time and subtle, powerful magic, and they cannot be rushed."

"But, My Lord –"

"Silence, Bellatrix," hissed the Dark Lord, a clear note of frustration in his voice at these words. He raised his wand once again and fired another spell at the island; it, too, was absorbed by the invisible wall. However, as time went by, the Death Eaters were able to see the wall slowly but surely appear, growing clearer and clearer until, at last, a vivid image of a massive, shield-like wall could be seen surrounding the far island. Voldemort fired one more spell – the final spell – and the entire gathering of the Dark army watched as the shimmering wall crumbled and collapsed, completely disappearing from sight.

Lights shone and sounds echoed from the fortress on the far island. It was evident that the occupants of the prison now knew that the powerful wards that had been constructed had fallen.

"Now, Bella," said Voldemort, turning to face the pale-skinned and dark-eyed woman standing proudly on his left side. "Now, it is time."

* * *

The seven Aurors and Hit Wizards on the island had no idea what had happened, their only warning of the attack coming a little to late for them to prepare a decent defence. Azkaban's wards had collapsed far quicker than anyone had ever thought possible. In fact, it had been thought that the Dark Lord himself would not have an easy time breaking into the powerful Wizarding stronghold with its increased security – a fact that had come from the Dementors' abandonment of the prison. Ringing sounds of the alarms had not provided notice of Voldemort's arrival soon enough.

Like a heavy and oppressing cloud, one that chokes the life from any breathing thing in which it comes in contact, hundreds of Dementors converged on the prison's walls, entering the structure via many passages and gates. The dark creatures of fear were soon followed by the massive quantities of Death Eaters and other servants of Voldemort. The Death Eaters began their fight with the Ministry employees guarding the prison, and the battle raged for hours, regardless of the fact that the side of Light knew a victory was hopeless.

Several spells flew from wands on both sides of the battle – the Death Eaters attempted to kill the Aurors and Hit Wizards, while the latter tried desperately to capture the Dark wizards. The task was not made easier by the swarms of Dementors that swept through the corridors of Azkaban, bringing greater amounts of terror and fear into the minds of the Ministry workers, as well as freeing the incarcerated servants of Voldemort. Some tried to make it to the prison's Apparition point in an attempt to flee the island with their lives, but they were struck by spells as they ran, their bodies collapsing to the rough stone floor, never to rise again. Unforgivable Curses ran rampant in the battle, what with shouts of _"Avada Kedavra!" "Crucio!"_ and _"Imperio!"_ echoing throughout the stone corridors.

And when dawn had just started to arrive, the battle was over. The victors had been decided, and those bodies of the defeated side now littered the grounds of Azkaban, while the prison itself had been emptied of all its previous – and live – occupants. Blood flowed freely from the open wounds of some of the dead and into the stone's cracks along the floor.

"What shall we do with the bodies, Master?" asked Bellatrix, glancing upwards into the snake-like face of Voldemort. His scarlet eyes shone in a combination of fire and victory, and as he looked at his servant, the woman who had served him so faithfully for so many years, he spoke the first thought that came into his mind.

"Burn them." And so they did.

Several Death Eaters pulled their wands out from an inside pocket, pointing their tips at the numerous bodies that were scattered throughout the prison and shouting the incantation, _"Incendio."_ Fire shot forth from the wands and enveloped the discarded forms of human beings, the tongues of fire wrapping around the flesh, searing and burning it black. Horrid smells assaulted the noses of the Death Eaters and thick, heavy smoke rose from the many fires and into the air, floating out through open windows or gates and into the outside world beyond. The main thing different from the Diagon Alley fire – other than the number of bodies – was the absence of screams. After all, the dead do not have the capability to scream, do they?

* * *

With a jerk, Harry Potter awoke suddenly in his bed, his right hand clutching his head as the thin, lightning-shaped scar burned forcefully on his forehead. He hissed in pain as the fire shot through him, and he pleaded with the powers that be that the pain cease. It finally did, although when he removed his hand, a bit of blood spotted his skin. Harry touched his scar cautiously once again, only to discover that, yes, it had started bleeding slightly.

The young wizard rose from his bed and headed down the hall, where he grabbed a towel to dab on his bleeding cut. The pain had, by now, completely stopped, and the blood was beginning to cease as well. But while the scar had stopped hurting, Harry's head was still spinning with questions. Why had his scar started hurting? Why, after over a year, did Voldemort end his employment of Occlumency against him? What could have made the feared wizard so lax that he had allowed Harry entry into his mind?

As the questions buzzed around in his head, Harry headed back to his room, only to discover that an owl was waiting to be let in his window. He opened the latch and the bird flew in, delivering a rolled-up copy of the morning's _Daily Prophet._ Harry watched the owl soar away for a brief moment before he reached down, picked up the paper, and read the headlines on the front page. His eyes barely lingered on the news for a second before he felt the paper falling from his hands and to the ground. The headline, however, was large enough to be seen from there – its bold, heavy lettering standing out like a giant blemish on a clear surface – as well as the first few paragraphs of the article detailed beneath it.

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******Massive Breakout of Azkaban  
All Death Eaters Freed; Aurors/Hit Wizards Burned**  
_By Richard Watson, Special Correspondent_

_"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has achieved a great victory, I'm sorry to say." The quote comes from Minister for Magic Rufus Scrimgeour, and concerns the horrible events detailed in the article below. Speaking to reporters outside the Ministry of Magic earlier, the former Head of the Auror Department was worn and tired, his eyes clearly displaying a bloodshot response to the Dark Side's victory in this war._

_"It is with great and terrible regret," said the Minister, "that I must inform the Wizarding community of such events. This war with You-Know-Who has intensified in recent weeks, yet we have always been able to keep his numbers from growing too large. Such a tragedy for us – the freeing of every Death Eater held within Azkaban's walls – is (continued on Page 2)._

* * *

Harry picked up the paper and hurled against the window, where it bounced off of the glass and fell onto his desk. _It wasn't possible,_ he thought. _They can't all be out._ But the sensible part of Harry's mind told him that, yes, the worst can indeed happen.

And by the news in today's paper, "the worst" was well on its way.

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_Author's__ Note__: Well, I hope you enjoyed this reading this one-shot. Like I said in the first AN, I experimented a bit with a different writing style and such, so I would appreciate any comments you'd like to leave. Thank you for reading!_

_--ForeverSirius77_


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